


Empty Shells of Chitin

by wingedrascal



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alzheimer's Disease, Angst, Gen, Old Age, Sadness, mention of off-screen major character deaths
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-25
Updated: 2013-05-25
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:15:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingedrascal/pseuds/wingedrascal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Is it too much for John to ask for just one more miracle?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Empty Shells of Chitin

**Author's Note:**

> All the glory forever and ever to my amazing beta and personal Jawn, brianaphora. Any remaining mistakes are mine alone.

Sometimes, Sherlock looked at him with so much crystal clarity in his eyes, that John forgot. Sherlock would steeple his fingers under his chin and furrow his brow and glare around at the living room. It was so much like the old Sherlock that John could almost fool himself, for a time. In those moments, they would sit in silence, both of them pretending that it was all fine. It surprised John, Sherlock's capacity to pretend, but he supposed it was probably for his benefit.

The doctors had tried to explain the process: it would start with small things, the inability to recall a certain word or remember where the milk goes. Then it would progress to forgetting names, not being able to retain information that he had just read, forgetting events in his own past. Eventually, Sherlock would lose awareness of his surroundings, lose his ability to follow a conversation, and become completely incapable of caring for himself.  
Of course, Sherlock had scoffed at the doctors. Alzheimer's research was significantly flawed, based on barely-connected theories from mediocre minds. Worse yet, the research was all in relation to _normal_ people, whose mental capacity was close enough to comatose anyway in Sherlock's opinion. 

Sherlock forgot the word "skeuomorph". He and John were walking. John's arthritis was slowly creeping up on him, and the daily walks seemed to help with the pain. As they passed houses, Sherlock would deduce the nature of the owners. They were looking at a psuedo-Tudor style home when Sherlock turned to John with a strange expression. He groped for a moment.  
"Everything all right?" John asked.  
Sherlock snapped his mouth closed and turned away. After that, he refused to go walking.

Sometimes Sherlock would jump up and stalk about the house, muttering under his breath. John could make out a few words; "pink, of course", and "I must have deleted it". Sometimes he would sit and stare at John with a perplexed expression.  
"Why are you here?" he would ask. And John would tilt his head and say,  
"I live here, Sherlock."  
"No you don't. You live with that _woman_. Sarah or Jennifer or whomever."  
And John would clear his throat and look away for some time before answering, softly,  
"Mary, Sherlock. And she's dead. She died years ago."  
Then Sherlock would jump up violently and slam the door on his way out.

The rages started soon after. Sherlock threw dishes and punched holes through the walls with the tip of a brolly. John had long ago hidden the firearms. At those times, there was nothing John could do to calm him down. On the anniversary of her death, John took Sherlock to Mrs. Hudson's grave. They had placed flowers there every year. Sherlock frowned at John, frowned at the headstone, frowned at the fake skull that was propped up by the dead flowers. He didn't remember placing it there. Didn't remember it's significance. John smiled at it, softly. Mrs. Hudson would have liked the joke, he thought.

* * *

It had been quiet for too long. John looked up from the telly, realising that he hadn't heard Sherlock stomp or throw anything or mutter in over an hour. He checked the bedrooms, the lavatory, the kitchen; no Sherlock anywhere. He felt a lump rise up in his throat as he pulled on a jacket. He'd never told Sherlock, but somehow the man had always known about the nightmares. Ever since Sherlock had come back from the dead all those years ago. Ever since John had gotten married, moved out, stopped helping on cases. Ever since Mary had died and John had dragged himself back to Sherlock, to the flat and the cases, and eventually to the country house when they'd both gotten too old to chase criminals around London. He'd had the same nightmare again and again, and here it was happening for real: Sherlock was gone.  
He found him in the garden in back, and breathed a few shallow breaths of relief. Sherlock was sitting in the dirt, his hands fisted in his lap. His face was crumpled into a mask of rage and sadness and forlorn regret. John pushed aside his feelings and leaned down as best he could.  
"What is it?" he asked. Sherlock looked up at him.  
"The bees, John. They are dead."  
John suddenly realised that he didn't hear the constant buzz that defined their back garden. He checked the nearest hive; empty shells of chitin lay motionless. He looked back at Sherlock, who said, miserably,  
"I forgot them. It was below freezing last week. I forgot."  
Grimacing, John lowered himself completely to the ground, refusing to think about how he was going to get back up. He looked level into Sherlock's eyes. They were colourless grey. He used to think those eyes beautiful; mercurial, like thin wisps of fog lifting away from a rare hint of sunlight. Now they looked painfully lost.  
"Sherlock," he started, but the other man shook his head.  
"You can't know, John. It, it was all I had. It _was me_. My brain. My thought process, the thousands of details that I never missed. Can you imagine losing your very essence?" His voice cracked and reformed. "If you lost the code that made up John Watson, in all his parts, who would you be?"  
John knew he couldn't answer, and he didn't try. He just sat and stared back into his friend's eyes with all the strength he could muster.

* * *

When John stepped into the kitchen one morning, and Sherlock demanded to know who he was, John realised that he _could_ answer. The code that made up John Watson was standing before him, and it was dissipating faster than John could catch it to put it back together. Sherlock looked at him with accusing, unrecognising eyes. He felt tears stinging behind his own, and he whispered,  
"I don't suppose I could ask for another miracle in one lifetime?"  
The man hurled a teacup at his head.


End file.
